


The Tumultuous Sea

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Betrayal, Character Death, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-01
Updated: 2011-04-01
Packaged: 2017-10-17 10:30:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You would have it no other way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tumultuous Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [White Noise](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/2810) by scrapbullet. 



He sings to you.

Oh, he sings to you. The depth of his eyes and the hum of his blood and the air that he distorts by _being_ and the timbre of his voice and all the myriad beauties of his body are a siren's call that you cannot deafen yourself to. When he sprawls on your bed like something too languid to call itself human, you answer it. When he turns his head to you, you answer it. When he speaks your name, when he breathes a word one might almost call an endearment, you answer it.

It is unthinkable not to. It is impossible not to. You would have it no other way.

*

There is a poison in his words. He speaks to others, and you are jealous of them, are jealous. Are jealous they will wither and dies beneath his gaze, overwhelmed, outmatched. _This one,_ he tells you, _will procure us one of the great seats of power. You will sit upon it, you shall use it, you shall show the face of innocence to them and they shall believe it.._ You nod. These are true things.

And he speaks in this ear, and that, and another, and you can very nearly see the curl of possession, obsession, lacing their irises. They spread the poison among themselves, inhale pale clouds of words and _believe_.

When one addled fool touches you, you fight revulsion. He smiles at you, a thing full of want and unbalanced confidence; you look to Henry and he tells you to make yourself useful.

Afterwards, there is no getting yourself clean. But then, you have been unclean for a very long time now; it is nothing new. You've learned to live with the crawling sensation that comes from filth, drying and peeling away under your skin.

You are hardly immune to Henry's poison.

*

There are things that swim in your dreams. Large things, immense things, with too many teeth and too many fins and wistful voices that are almost indistinguishable from the soft lapping of waves. They hunt you.

Henry dispatches them, guts them, makes them scream.

You are grateful.

Some times you wake and your skin is dripping with the vicious, evanescent shadows of these things, when Henry had you slide your hands into the great wounds and curl your fingers into the unidentifiable slick things that are exposed. The pale underbellies of your dreams, of memories, exposed.

They cry, confused.

*

You didn't expect him to kill you.

And yet, you are not exactly surprised.

It is not possible to speak; there is something wet and tasting of copper and the sea in your mouth, spilling out and turning Henry's fingers gaudy and bright as he strokes your face, gently. His eyes are soft, quiet.

He is telling you something, but the sea is calling you home, is taking you out on the tide. You cling, a moment more, a moment more, a moment to speak -

But of course, there is no need. He kisses your temple, lays the world out for you, lets you have one last vision of the greatness to come, that you will never see, that you will make possible with this final gift.

You don't really need to tell him how much you love him; he knows.

He is grateful.

*

And a betrayal is a betrayal is a betrayal is a -

It seemed appropriate at the time. 


End file.
